


Moonrise

by risokura



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risokura/pseuds/risokura
Summary: What would become of them in the aftermath of the war? Before the beginnings of a new day? Petra/Dorothea.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Kudos: 23





	Moonrise

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly never saw myself writing these two sans for a side pairing in a larger fic, but. Here we are.
> 
> My inspiration and will to write has been lacking in the latter half of the month. But, I wanted to write this as a birthday present for a dear friend of mine who’s never played FE3H, but loves DoroPetra regardless. She wanted something set during when Dorothea first comes to Brigid. So, here we are. 
> 
> It's a couple of days late, but... happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you like it :P.

What is it like to leave everything you know behind in search of a new land?

A new purpose? A new life?

As the waves of the ocean cave and bow underneath the weight of the ship that sails through them, Dorothea wonders what it is she’s leaving behind in Fodlan. No family, perhaps friends, duty served and seen to completion. Edelgard— _my dear, Edie—_ her plans were brought to fruition and now… where did that leave Dorothea?

Petra had left a month before her. She had another calling in her life—assuming the mantle of the throne from her grandfather. There were things that she had to see to now. But, she would call for Dorothea when the time was right.

And that moment was now.

Dorothea tucks her hair behind her ear, recalling the moments that led up to Petra’s departure. She was there, standing beside Byleth in one of the many rooms of the Imperial palace. Edelgard and Petra sat opposite one another at the table, a single document on the surface before them. The emancipation of Brigid from the Empire. Although Edelgard’s face is stern, there is softness in those eyes.

Two political entities formally bound to one another, a hostage situation. Well, Petra was no longer a hostage. And Edelgard knew what it was like to be a bird—kept caged and locked inside its prison—yearning to spread its wings to soar once again. It is as Edelgard had once told her all those years ago— _Never settle for being the bird, be the arrow instead._

With a flourish of a quill upon the scratchy parchment, blank ink seals the agreement before them. The parchment is pressed with the official mark of the Emperor and the tense atmosphere settles into something more amicable. A bow of the head from Petra, a small quirk of the lips from Edelgard. _You have my thanks_. Brigid is _free_.

The next few days pass in a blur as Petra makes preparations for her departure for her homeland. In the midst of it all, she sits with Dorothea for a tea in the twilight of early summer sun and asks her— _What will you do now that the war is over?_

Dorothea takes a sip of her tea and smiles, disarming and soft— _I’m not so sure. There’s so much that needs to be done around Enbarr… and I’m wondering what I can do for Edie in these moments. But, honestly, with the professor around, I’m not so sure I’m needed much at all._

Petra sets her mug down on the table, contemplates her next action for a brief moment, before she covers Dorothea’s hand with her own. Does Dorothea still remember those words that she spoke to her when they were endlessly surrounded by both havoc and death?

Will Dorothea come _with_ her? To see her homeland? She could use the help after all. A familiar face, an ally—a _friend—_ would be appreciated in the future hardship that she almost certainly will endure.

Dorothea eyes the tan hand covering her own, the slight cinching of Petra’s grip and looks up to meet her gaze.

She speaks her truth before she can even think otherwise.

* * *

Brigid … is _different_.

That’s the first thing Dorothea thinks to herself as she steps off the ship and makes her way toward the docks before her. It’s _hot_. There are palm trees everywhere, the beach seems to stretch out for miles around them, and the water is a crystalline blue. How she _wishes_ she could take a dip in it, as she stands in the sweltering heat of the sun bearing down on her porcelain skin.

And yet, even as the heaviness of the sun's heat weighs upon her, Dorothea finds herself perking up—Petra, in the distance, is waiting for her. Her entourage flanks her sides, brilliance emitting from its center. The smile on her face is different. Departing from Petra’s usual calm and patient manner. Happiness, the signaling of Dorothea’s arrival.

The procession halts Dorothea as she draws closer to Petra and a man, draped in clothing reminiscent of Petra’s own, advances toward her. Dorothea notes the markings on his face, the downward cast of his gaze and the mutterings of something in a language that she can’t understand. In his hand, suspended from a leather cord, is a small cauldron of sorts from which smoke wafts and wanes. The smoke is sweet and heavy and Dorothea resists the urge to cough as it burns her lungs. Petra from the distance— _He’s blessing you, stay still for a minute._

When the shaman finishes his mutterings, he steps away from Dorothea and allows for Petra to proceed. Petra doesn’t waste anytime pulling her in for a hug and squeezes _tightly_.

 _Dorothea, I am so **glad** for you to come to see my home_.

* * *

The first couple of days in Brigid pass with little incident.

Petra disappears for most of the day, her time filled with meetings and discussions, while Dorothea familiarizes herself with her new abode, roaming the halls and taking in just how _different_ this place is. In the evenings, Petra pulls her away from the murmurings of the new _foreigner_ within the palace walls and they walk the streets of the capital—taking in the sights and smells that are all so new to Dorothea, and Petra has missed for so long.

As they sit down for dinner together in the back of some dimly lit stall, the sizzling of spiced meat and thick, alcohol spiked fruit juices settling into glasses covered with condensation before them, Petra turns her gaze to Dorothea and asks her— _How are you settling into yourself?_

Dorothea is in the middle of chewing her way through another skewer of spicy meat and charred vegetables, when she looks up at Petra and smiles warmly. Brigid is great—wonderful, really. She leaves out the feeling of the heat settling into the deepest layer of her sinew and flew and melting her from the inside out. She can grin and bear it for Petra’s sake, though. It would just take some time. Acclimation wasn’t an easy process, after all.

* * *

Petra asks her to come sit in on a meeting one morning. Surely, Dorothea must be bored of finding ways to occupy her time by now.

While the people of Brigid have been different, Dorothea is still wary of the gaze of nobles. And Petra’s most trusted advisors make sure to let her _know_ that her presence isn’t exactly welcomed at this table. Whispers of the past misdeeds of the Empire still linger. It doesn’t matter that Edelgard has honored Petra’s one true wish in this lifetime— _My dream was to break free of the unfair treaties of the empire._ One action against them was enough to give them pause, treat any foreigner in these lands—especially one whom was currently seated that the _right_ side of their ruler—with some level of suspicion.

Dorothea doesn’t contribute much to the meeting. For one, she doesn’t really understand much of what’s going on, considering the proceedings are in an entirely different language after all. Either way, she appreciates Petra’s voice, low in her ear, whispering a quick translation of what appears to be going on.

After the meeting adjourns and Dorothea rubs the headache away from her temples, Petra suggests that they take the rest of the day off. She feels as if she’s been a poor hostess during this time… never really giving Dorothea her full and undivided attention. Dorothea just smiles— _it’s okay, you’re a busy woman these days after all—_ as she follows Petra out of the meeting room and she leads them away from her domain, wanting to leave behind the weight of being ruler for a day.

They sit on the shoreline of a beach in companionable silence as the waves lap at the sand. The sun has begun its daily decent again, yet the light never seems to fade from Brigid. It’s almost as if life has returned to the land … _Petra_ , perhaps?

Dorothea edges back a bit, as the water draws nearer toward them and wraps her arms around her legs. She leans forward, pressing her cheek to her knee. Her eyes find Petra staring off into the distance, silent, contemplating something to herself that she isn’t ready to speak on just yet.

_How long do will you stay in Brigid, Dorothea?_

Dorothea raises her eyebrows in surprise and tilts her head to the side. She leans back on her hands, the sand embedding itself in her palms, as she looks to the sky. She doesn’t know. One month? Two months? She doesn’t even know what she’s doing with her life in the calm that’s descended over the land. She could stay longer if Petra desired it… but she doesn’t want to intrude.

In the moments of the sun coming to meet the horizon, a hand slowly finds hers, covering it, like the last time they sat alone together for tea. Green lifts to meet amber, narrowed, focused—like a hunter seeking out its prey.

_Why would you be intruding? I asked you to come… didn’t I?_

* * *

The crashing of the waves in the distance, the beck and calls of strange birds in the nighttime—each complimenting the other—a gentle lullaby that carries Dorothea to sleep on nights where it eludes her. She wonders, with time, if she could learn their song if she tried hard enough.

Sometimes she dreams of Enbarr. Other nights, the last days of the war. Edelgard, cloaked in red, with Byleth, darker than the night sky, forever at her side. Her friends seem like a distant memory in this dream world. She calls to them, their backsides fleeting and fading amongst a canopy of flames and slowly fading embers. The skies part from grey, the darkness of the night in which Rhea was killed—one with no moon—fading into the background. And in this new dawn, Dorothea finds herself alone. She calls out to the void, hoping to find someone, _anyone,_ to heed her call. How could they have forgotten her as they all moved forward with their lives?

But then, she hears _her_ voice. _Soft_. Calling through fog and confusion. Warmth, tan hand on her shoulder, pulling her into a gentle embrace. _Calm, you are safe now. Do not worry. I have not forgotten you._ Have I not told you that _you_ are _precious_ to me?

The warmth of Petra in these dreams feels like the sunrays shining through a canopy of Fódlan’s brightest autumn foliage. The haze of an empty afternoon, nothing to bother them, nothing to take their minds away from the present moment. Sometimes, Dorothea swears she can feel the earth at a standstill beneath her palms, as she lies on her back, staring at the sky. Petra, at her side, quiet and patient as always. In these moments, she can forget herself—forget the world. No worries of marriage or status, or anything else she can think of that determines her place in the world. She’s just _here._ With _her._ With Petra.

But then… dawn always comes too soon and she awakens from the dream.

The call of those birds, the sound of the waves, always feels distant by then. 

* * *

A month passes, but it’s almost as if time is standing still.

Dorothea has started to lose count of how much time has passed while she lies in the sheets of her quarters. Enough dallying, she doesn’t need anymore reprieve. What she _needs_ is to find a way to make herself feel useful again.

She asks Petra if she can join in more of those meetings of hers and they’ve started to have their own private debriefing sessions in the interim so that Dorothea can get caught up to speed. While she’s scribbling something down on the parchment in front of her and Petra is reading something on her desk, Dorothea looks up at the other woman and asks her— _Petra. What do you think of me acting as a foreign liaison for you while I’m here in Brigid?_

It seemed like a sane idea, didn’t it? After all, she had spent enough time amongst the nobles in Fodlan to know what they were like. How they could take advantage of others in a weaker position than they. Their greed, their tricks. Dorothea resists the urge to frown at the memories of her earlier forays in life and meets Petra’s surprised—(belying hopefulness)—gaze.

Would she really do that for _her_?

* * *

Another shared moment at dusk on the beach.

Their hands skim one another at the edge, pinkies barely touching as they rest in the warmth of the sand.

* * *

Petra is oddly perturbed one morning after leaving one of her advisor’s chambers. She drags Dorothea away to their spot on the beach, sits silently, fuming to herself and unable to articulate how she feels with her words. The wind blows softly, carrying the scent of brine. Dorothea leans forward, eyebrows raised and waiting for Petra to explain her dour mood.

 _They keep talking about marriage. I have been a pawn for long enough. I want to follow my own heart, Dorothea—_ She finally speaks— _I know that you once spoke of similar feelings._

Dorothea nods her head in understanding. Oh, how she _knows_ this feeling too well. The feelings of yearning for one life when fate seems to pull you in another direction. To follow one’s own heart even in the midst of duty and obligation. Learning that sacrifice was demanded of you. That the dreams of youth were only folly that those lacking scruples or morals followed. She smiles sadly— _I do, Petra._

Petra picks up a seashell resting near her thigh and dusts the sand away from its ridged edges. She holds it in the palm of her hand and thumbs over it once more. She doesn’t look at Dorothea as she speaks again.

_Besides… my heart is … full of another._

Dorothea feels her own skip a beat at the sound of that confession.

* * *

She knows that Dorothea is homesick.

How often does the other woman think of Fodlan? Enbarr? The friends they both left behind? She’s been taking to her newfound role here as another advisor for Petra with such vigor that it seems as if she hardly thinks of her homeland at all. Dorothea seems to be more focused on building a bridge, filling in the gaps and spaces left behind in Brigid’s breaking of its vassal state to the Empire.

But, even if she’s come to embrace the way of life in Brigid, familiarity is comfort. In a land where she’s so removed from everything she once knew, perhaps something that reminds her of Fodlan would erase the darkness she catches settling across Dorothea’s features when she thinks Petra doesn’t notice.

A vegetable stir-fry, one of Dorothea's favorites. The taste is a little different than Dorothea is probably accustomed too, considering the spices and herbs that they use for cooking in Brigid aren't the same. But, the sentiment isn’t lost on her. As they sit down for dinner that night, Dorothea thanks her for her thoughtfulness.

Petra sits back in her chair, her arms on the table and hands clasped together. Thoughts flood her mind.

What more can she _do_ for her?

* * *

They’re sitting in Petra’s quarters late at night. The windows are open, the scent of jasmine flowers carried in by the cool breeze that blows from outside. Dorothea is sitting in front of Petra on her bed, allowing her to finally braid her hair like they once spoke of so long ago. They engage in casual conversation from time to time, mostly silent and enjoying each other’s company as they always do.

When Petra is done, Dorothea shivers slightly as the other woman’s hand rests warmly on her shoulder, trails slightly down her shoulder blade and then she leans back to get off of the bed. She motions for Dorothea to come over to the mirror on the vanity to look herself. As Dorothea leans in and combs her hair through the intricate entanglement of braids, Petra smiles warmly.

_We are like twins._

Indeed they are.

_You know… there are customs in regards to hair braiding that I do not think I have told you about._

Petra comes up behind her now…

_...Particularly involving two women… it is custom for close friends to braid one another’s hair…_

Dorothea startles slightly at the warm hand sliding over one of her own. Petra pulls her away from the mirror, turns her around to meet her gaze.

_…But it is also a shared custom amongst **lovers** as well…_

Dorothea swallows past the lump in her throat, the thudding of her heart in her chest. Petra’s voice in her ear…

… _Perhaps you can braid my own hair one day once I have shown you how…_

* * *

As autumn approaches and the strength of the sun dims, Edelgard appears for a visit with Byleth in tow.

It’s presented as a trip of formalities and meetings to solidify the renewed and invigorated relationship between two entities previously engaged in a power struggle. But as Dorothea stands beside Petra and notes the _smile_ that Edelgard has one her face, Byleth following in her wake, she thinks of it more as a gathering of old friends. An unspoken peace lingers about them, their thoughts of war and conquer long forgotten.

Petra engages in the usual formalities. They tour the palace, walk amongst the common folk and make pleasantries with the locals. As Edelgard and Petra walk in front of them, Dorothea chances asking Byleth how _she’s_ acclimating to this change of pace in life. Her former professor just smiles in that lofty way of hers. _It’s fine. El ...keeps me busy. El_ , huh? Dorothea smirks, stifling a giggle behind her hand.

Perhaps things have changed for the two of them as well.

* * *

A week passes and Edelgard and Byleth return to Enbarr as quickly as they have come. As Dorothea and Petra stand on the pier, waving goodbye to the vessel sailing off back to Fodlan, she asks Petra— _Do you think there’s something more going on between the two of them?_

Petra replies— _Perhaps them… and others as well._

* * *

A midnight swim underneath the light of a half moon.

Petra had wanted to forget about the worries of the day, the arguments that occurred during that stupid advisors meeting. Something about marriage, heirs, things that Petra doesn’t _care_ or want to think about right now. As she returns to Dorothea that evening, she seeks out the comfort of an embrace and shakes her head as Dorothea asks her— _Do you want to talk about it?_

Instead she pulls her away to their private place. Both of them, giggling and laughing like two children, as they shed their clothing on the shore and stumble into the dark waters of the ocean. They hold hands as they tread water and look up at the clear night sky above them. Dorothea turns to look at Petra in the dim light of the moon. She feels warmth flood her chest when she realizes the other woman is doing the same.

A tiny pull closer, an arm wrapping around her waist.

She leans in first, letting their lips meet.

* * *

Teatime in the gardens, jasmine blooms filling the air with their soft and floral mist. Their cups of tea sit untouched, fragrant steam wafting toward them, just waiting to be consumed. Liquid disappears as quickly as conversation comes. Petra picks up her mug first, holds it just in front of her lips before asking Dorothea— _Have you had the feeling of truly belonging somewhere?_

Dorothea looks into her own mug, turns it around slightly on its saucer and a sense of forlorn settles into her eyes. _No_. Not really. Mother, dead. Father, unknown. She tries to forget the fact that they might have met at one time in her life… and he had _flirted_ with her of all things. She was somewhat indebted to Professor Manuela, hiding her inadequacies behind that _smile_ everyone seemed to be so fond of. And her voice… her wits.

Her life had been a fleeting existence that was only built on the will of survival. She never had the chance to feel like she belonged anywhere. She takes a sip of her warm tea and sets it back down. Dorothea asks Petra in return— _And what of you?_

What _of_ her? As a princess she didn’t have to think about much, her life was laid out before her. Follow this rule, follow that decree. But, then the Empire came and took her away. A hostage held as a bidding chip in this senseless game of war and conquer that rulers loved to play. All of it was just a ploy to keep her people in line. And then _she_ was the foreigner in a strange land where she had struggled with the language, found its markings to be odd on her mother tongue.

But, Edelgard, the princess of that damn Empire who took her away had been so kind to her in those days. Surely… _surely_ this was some mistake? Maybe she wasn’t a hostage? Perhaps, this was all a part of her formal training to assume the mantle of ruler when her people required it of her. Dorothea had once called her the _princess that every little girl wishes she could be_ —but what exactly did she mean by that?

Petra sips her own tea and finds that the answer to the question is not so easily answered by the person who purported it in the first place. Dorothea tilts her head to the side in question, her chin resting on her palm.

_Is it so important that we do?_

Her question has Petra shaking her head without even taking a minute to consider and think on it.

No. Perhaps it isn’t.

* * *

Her advisors keep pressing. Petra doesn’t relent to their pressure.

She pulls Dorothea closer toward her. Moments of reprieve found in the midst of rebuilding her kingdom.

Kisses stolen in secret, whispering within the halls. Neither confesses, only truth the two of them will know.

* * *

A night that is cooler than most finds Dorothea lying at the side of Petra in her bed.

The first of suitors had shown their face and Petra—in all her patience and calm—had demanded him to _leave_ her domain before he even gave her his name. Dorothea flinches at the sounds of her angry voice emanating from behind closed doors. She doesn’t understand most of what Petra is yelling and arguing about, but the tone of her voice conveys all. As she leaves the room, face red and her eyes narrowed, Petra grabs Dorothea’s hand and pulls her away to their secret place.

They stay there until the sun comes down and a servant calls for them. There is nothing but silence through dinner, anger finally simmering down and coming to rest. Petra asks to be left alone for the rest of the night, only wanting Dorothea to remain at her side. That night, Dorothea pulls her into an embrace and sings gently, an old lullaby that her mother had once sung to her before death had claimed her.

When the song finally ebbs its way into ending, Petra pulls Dorothea in for a kiss and cradles her face in her hands.

_You are most that is precious to me. I will not give that away._

* * *

Another suitor.

Another dismissal.

Dorothea hides her snickering at Petra berating her advisors once again.

Two weeks pass and Dorothea notes that the visits from suitors have stopped.

When she questions Petra, Dorothea notices the blush that crosses the former princess’ face as she looks away from gaze.

_I told them… that I already had something that was precious to me._

* * *

The beach again, early morning, before the sun is almost up.

Dorothea closes her eyes and inhales the deep scent of the ocean’s brine. It’s calming and fresh, somehow she feels renewed. The encroachment of dawn, another rising, the resetting of life once again. She opens her eyes and folds her arms over her chest, letting the winds of the sea ruffle her hair, comb their will through the tendrils the frame her face. Warmth. All she feels is _warmth_ descending all around her. In the distance she can hear familiar footsteps approaching. The source of this warmth… it all seems to draw back to _her._

_Dorothea._

Petra, behind her on the mounds of sand and rock above the shoreline. Her hand is on her hip, amber eyes honed in on the woman who has somehow _captured_ her heart. She tilts her head to the side, questioning, waiting. Dorothea smiles at her in response. She picks up the folds of her dress, kicks the feet from her sand as she shuffles them into her sandals and advances toward her to greet the new day.

_I’m coming, Petra._


End file.
